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The smell hits me first.
It’s a pleasant cotton scent and not diesel fuel pumping outside my motel room, seeping under my door.
And no sound of drunks walking by and crashing into everything.
It’s all breathable air and quiet here at Casa Montgomery.
Grabbing my phone, I see it’s six-forty-five.
Ford is still working out. Funny, with all that got thrown at me last night, I remembered his schedule.
What I wouldn’t give to see him shirtless, in gym shorts, and sweating. It’s irrational for me to feel so attracted to him, but the man is that smoldering.
It didn’t take long for him to settle under my skin.
I don’t get why he’s helping me like this. Sure, he wants a big fee, but he doesn’t seem to be lacking clients. I can’t assume it’s because he feels the same about me. Girls my size aren’t for everyone.
Men are either cruel jerks or love curves, like it’s a kink.
Ford is so tall and brawny, I feel petite next to him. Maybe he’s one of the good guys.
Michael was just a dick who did me dirty.
I’m holding on to the belief that Ford has a heart of gold in that big chest of his and will come through for me.
After a shower with expensive soap and hair products, I feel amazing.
The weather has made that dramatic post-summer swing. Every day feels fresh and cool with blinding sharp angles of the sun.
In a pair of dark jeans and a long sweater, I amble downstairs to the kitchen, my ankle boots clicking loudly on the porcelain tile floors that line this entire level.
An older, thin woman in the kitchen spins around.
“Hi. I’m Bernadette. I’m a...a friend of Ford’s,” I offer and wait for a nod of recognition.
Surely, I’m just a friend.
This woman has probably seen models stumble from his bedroom many mornings. Or maybe he’s the kind of man who doesn’t let women spend the night.
“Good morning.” The woman wipes her hands on a dishtowel. “I’m Nell. Ford sent me a text that he had a guest. I’m preparing his breakfast shake and then I need to do some laundry. Can I get you coffee?”
“You don’t have to wait on me.”
“You’re a guest of Mr. Montgomery. I wait on his guests. What would you like for breakfast?” She smiles.
“Just black coffee. And I don’t...” I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t eat breakfast.”
“That’s fine, miss. Jot down what you would like from the market. I’ll be going out around eleven.” Nell slides a notepad in front of me while I sit at the kitchen island. “If you have anything for the laundry, eitherbring it to the mud room, or I can grab it from your hamper. Your call.”
A moment later, the wonderful aroma from a steaming glass mug of coffee fills my lungs.
With my coffee, a pen, and a notepad, I stare out the window overlooking the park. I take a sip and twirl the pen.
I’d been walking the streets of Maspeth, Queens, scamming free Wi-Fi in coffee bars, nursing black coffees to keep a seat.
I had my old tablet buried in my weekend bag when I got home from the beach, but it only has antiquated drawing apps.
No matter what I try, I can’t draw. The more I can’t draw, the more panicked I get. That’s why I can’t just create a new line of clothes.
